


So Be It

by pendragonfics



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft is a Softie, Reunions, Slice of Life, gender ambiguous reader, no pronouns for reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25332274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: Returning from work overseas, Reader has a guest in their house.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Reader, Mycroft Holmes/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 107





	So Be It

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Tumblr request!
> 
> Also, the title is kinda a big deal for me. As a kid, I had a really bad relationship with my dad, and he used to always yell 'so be it' when he was mad. Anyways. I'm trying to reclaim the phrase because I'm a strong person and my dad can't take 3 words from my vocab in that particular order. 
> 
> erm. 
> 
> anyways enjoy the story sorry to clog the fic with my baggage.

By the time the sun has set, the kettle, boiled for a cup of tea, has long been forgotten. It’s a cold day, a long day; perhaps the coldest and longest day there ever was. Of course, there is no science to that claim, but everything was always - _ est _ when you were not in the company of your boyfriend.  _ Boyfriend _ . He hated that word so much, and yet, that was his word now. Before, when you were friends, carefully side-stepping around his brother’s shenanigans, he had been vocal about so much. Stock prices. The importance of public umbrella stands. The dying art of handwritten letters. And menial terminology for those who chose to be in a dalliance with another person. 

You can muse all you want about the years spent wasted, pining for the man, but it doesn’t help with the fact that you haven’t made any preparations for dinner, and there simply isn’t any room in your budget for take-away food tonight. Rising from the settee, you cast away the novel you weren’t reading - a present from your mother that doesn’t captivate your mind - you move from the sitting room to the kitchen. 

How long ago was the sunset? The room was so cold, and shivering in your knitted pullover, you flick the gas stove on, place a pot atop it, and rummage through the pantry for a tin of soup. Soup, while not the most appealing, was always an option. Once tipped in, you stand there with the wooden spoon, idly pushing the contents as so not to burn at the base. Your mind wanders to other things; the lawn would need mowing soon, and you were almost out of milk. Mycroft preferred skim milk, but it was dearer to purchase two cartons. 

The bubbling aroma of tinned potato and leek soup reaches your nose and satisfied with the consistency, you prepare to serve yourself. It’s not the same, living alone. You weren’t supposed to live alone. Hadn’t you agreed to live with him? You had. And yet, his work called him away so often, it was almost as if he was a ghost, an echo of his own image. 

The clock above the oven says it’s almost six-thirty. Your phone screen is empty - well, empty of him. There are notifications for apps you barely use, and one from an idle phone game that you’ve been meaning to delete. The only text message you received today was from the phone company. 

Taking your soup to the sitting room, you swipe the heater on with your foot and flick through the programs available on the telly. The evening news. A game show. A documentary about poor, hungry children, produced by rich, overfed adults. More news. Re-runs of a show that you never got into. Fed up, you mute the screen, and eat in silence. 

The dishwasher is on, benches cleaned, and the rubbish taken to the street by seven. There isn’t enough to do around the house to keep your mind off of the silence, so your phone’s speaker fills the air with a tinny rendition of a favourite song. It can’t take your mind off of what you’re missing. While your boyfriend isn’t the most touchy of all, you miss his presence, his voice, his hands; especially all of those toward you. His flight was supposed to land four hours ago, and you’re sure it doesn’t take this long to come through the security at Heathrow. 

Resigned, as the song finishes, you shut the app off, and take a cup of tea upstairs. Living in a cottage had its ups and downs - like how the vacuum cord couldn’t reach all the way down or up when you cleaned the stairs, and how nice it was to have a garden to yourself - but what attracted you to the life outside of the city was spending it with him. 

It’s hard to not think of Mycroft. His shoes sit at the front door, and his clothes are on the other side of the wardrobe. His side of the bed is untouched, and his clock beside the bed is growing dusty, as is his copy of  _ War and Peace _ . The tea sits untouched beside the bed as you change, and as you wriggle into bed with it, it warms your hands, but not the ache in your heart. 

The mug is almost empty when you hear a scratching noise and the familiar tread of footsteps upon the carpeted foyer. You hold your breath as so to hear better; there’s a few other noises, and then, the sound de-shoed feet up the stairs. You sit up in time to see him enter; Mycroft Holmes looks tired. His hair is mussed, tie loosened and top button undone. His slacks are creased, and his suit jacket is folded over his arm. But the uncharacteristically untidy boyfriend of yours, looking so very tired, perks up at the sight of you. 

“Oh, ___________, I thought you were asleep,” he hummed, tugging at his tie. “Did I wake you?” 

“I was waiting up for you,” you place your tea beside the bed, and slowly, rise, moving toward your boyfriend. “Let me guess. Surprise briefing?”

He chuckles at that. “I’m not sure it’s considered a surprise if it happens every time, my dear,” he says, tie in hand. 

You reach for his chest, and clumsily, your tired fingers work at the buttons, revealing his undershirt. Though he had spent the last month in overseas for work, a six-hour flight from Cairo to Heathrow, and too long before ending up at your fingertips, he didn’t seem as clammy as he usually did after long nights at the office. The clothes peeled away, and you sat at the end of the bed as Mycroft shuffled off to the bathroom adjacent. As you heard the shower twist on, the water spewing forth, through the steam and the open door he talked what he could of the goings-on he had encountered since the last time the pair of you were less than six feet apart. 

“That sounds...illustrious.” 

“You give me far too much credit, ___________.” He spoke over the spray, “I’m a glorified babysitter to ministers and diplomats that toe the line of morality.” 

“Is that on your business card?” you retort, smirking. “‘Diplomatic babysitter’?” 

Mycroft steps out of the shower, towel around his waist. His hair is flat against his head, as is the light scowl at the thought of your branding of him. But he doesn’t speak any more on the matter, instead, focusing on his grooming routine. You don’t move from the end of the bed; through the doorway, you watch as he shaves, towel-drys his hair, and noticing your gaze, hangs the bathmat to dry before rejoining you in the bedroom.

“Do you think anyone knows that the great Ice Man of the UK has his partner wrapped around his finger?” You ask, leaning back, watching as Mycroft nears you. 

Anyone else would show their annoyance physically, outwardly, to you - but you know that sort of thing manifests differently in Mycroft. His face reddens, if not from the sting of his aftershave, and a small cough forces his words to stay inside his throat, unexpressed. 

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” you add. 

“Yes?” he prompts, stepping into his green and white pinstriped pyjama bottoms.

You scramble back into the bedsheets and kick your feet under the covers for warmth, watching your boyfriend all the while. “It rains more when you’re not around. Or the same amount, but it doesn’t feel as nice alone. Sometimes I read something in the news and I’ll go to show you, but you’re not around, and I feel like a fool.” You sigh, leaning back into the pillows, “...and I miss you when you’re away. You’re unlike everyone else I’ve ever met. You’re smart and handsome...” 

“How is it, that after so long awake, I want to remain alert just to be with you?” Mycroft asks, joining you beneath the covers. 

He flicks the lamp off on his side of the bed, and inches toward you. Mycroft smells of lemongrass and coffee grounds, leather and faintly, peppermint, and while it’s an odd mix, especially for the painfully ordinary person you are, it’s perfect. 

“Please tell me you’re here for a while,” you plead, fingers at the ready to switch off your lamp. “I can’t go to sleep if you’ll be gone in the morning.” 

“Darling,” he moans, pressing into your side. “I would never leave without saying goodbye.” Looking you in the eye, he says, his words just for you, “I’m here for the rest of the winter - until you can’t stand me anymore.” 

The room is plunged into darkness, and you slip beside him, and pepper his freshly-shaven cheeks in kisses. “But Mycroft,” you tell him, “You’d never leave again if that’s the case.” 

He hums. “Then so be it.” 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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